


Nothing By Halves

by Carriefx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, It's For a Case, John Teaches Sherlock How To Flirt, M/M, Pastiche, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vibes of Fake Relationship, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carriefx/pseuds/Carriefx
Summary: The seduction of Milverton’s housemaid is not as easy for Holmes as readers of theStrandhave been led to believe. Watson reveals the lengths to which the great detective is prepared to go “for a case”.





	Nothing By Halves

JOHN: You got that from a book.

SHERLOCK: _Everyone_ got that from a book.

_~ Sherlock (BBC): His Last Vow ~_

Our dealings with the notorious blackmailer Charles Augustus Milverton are now public knowledge; however, I omitted several details from my published account of the case. While the identity of Milverton’s killer is a subject of intense speculation among readers of the _Strand,_ other evasions in the narrative appear to have passed unnoticed. For instance, nobody has questioned my implication that Sherlock Holmes could effortlessly charm, and ultimately engage himself to, Milverton’s housemaid Agatha.

Far be it from me to undermine the public’s confidence in the boundless talent of my friend. The reality of the case was, however, somewhat different. It makes for a more entertaining tale.

Returning home from my professional rounds one morning, I was surprised to find Holmes sprawled in his armchair, reading a novel. My surprise was all the greater when I saw the book’s cover: it featured a pirate, balanced precariously upon the bow of a ship, one arm around the waist of a singularly buxom young lady, whose expression of vacant adoration strained credulity, given her immediate danger of tumbling backwards into the waves. Holmes was evidently several chapters into the tale, and was reading with avid attention. Four more books of a similar ilk were stacked at his feet.

The sight was so incongruous that I burst out laughing. He looked up, startled, but did not appear in the least embarrassed by his occupation.

“This is not your usual choice of reading material,” I remarked, when no explanation seemed forthcoming.

“Certainly not. And yet, if one ignores the overblown and quixotic, the substance of the tales is nonetheless instructive. The same might be said, incidentally, of your stories in the _Strand_.”

This backhanded compliment failed utterly to divert me. “Instructive?” I repeated. “How?”

He cleared his throat, and returned his gaze to the text. “I am gathering information on how to court a woman.”

Had I not registered the almost imperceptible frown that creased his forehead, I would have dismissed the matter as a joke. As it was, I set down my medical bag and seated myself - hat, coat and all - in the armchair opposite him.

“What kind of information?” I asked, with all the delicacy I could muster.

“Insights into the feminine psyche, as well as an overview of courtship rituals and hints as to acceptable language and behaviour. Despite appearances, romantic novels are more forthcoming on these subjects than the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_.”

“I do not doubt _that_ ,” I remarked, eying the weighty tomes he had discarded upon the table. “But Holmes, such tales are hardly… Would not real-life experience be a better guide?”

“Undoubtedly it would, if I had any to draw upon.”

“Do you mean to say that you have never…?”

“I consider sentiment to be a defect which detracts from the ability to reason,” he responded, coolly. “My distaste has, thus far, extended to all forms of romantic entanglement.”

I leaned back in my chair, my mind reeling. In idle hours, I had sometimes wondered about Holmes’ intimate past, picturing him with elegant, high-born ladies or, occasionally, raffish, bohemian men. Such imaginings had never convinced me, I confess; yet that a man as charismatic, as striking and as inquisitive as my friend should have no romantic experience at all, had simply not occurred to me. I found the idea strangely absorbing.

“I do not mean to be intrusive, my dear fellow, but is this for a case?”

“What else would it be?” His tone implied that the question was both ludicrous and mildly offensive. “I must remove Lady Blackwell’s letters from Milverton’s house. A flirtation with his housemaid is the safest plan that I can conceive to obtain information on the layout of Appledore, and the habits of its occupants.”

I admit to a certain relief at this explanation, although the feeling was short-lived. The false position in which we would place ourselves, the danger of capture, and the risk to my friend’s career and reputation, were serious objections to the scheme, quite apart from the deception of an innocent girl. Holmes, however, insisted that it was the only viable course of action. Milverton would not give up the letters for anything less than the exorbitant price that he had requested. As for the housemaid, Holmes assured me that he would toy neither with her virtue nor with her heart. She had several suitors, whom she delighted in driving to a frenzy of mutual jealousy, and as one of the crowd he would prove as strategically useful to her as she was to him.

In the light of this explanation, I could not help but revert to my initial concern, and ventured to suggest to my friend that a perusal of ‘ _Bosom of the Ocean’_ might not quite be sufficient to prepare him, genius though he was, for a convincing flirtation with an accomplished coquette.

He shrugged, and tossed the book carelessly onto the table. “I’m skeptical myself about the wisdom of sporting an eye-patch during courtship, but I’m certain that I can employ a seaman’s accents and vocabulary to excellent effect.”

“Holmes, this is no laughing matter!”

“I take your point, dear boy, but what other options do I have? Practical instruction is hard to come by. I suppose that I could recruit a streetwalker for the purpose.”

“You will do no such thing!” I exclaimed, surprising us both with my vehemence. Then, without further thought, I added, “Holmes, have you not considered that _I_ could teach you how to flirt?”

He blinked.

“I do have some experience in this area,” I persisted, warming to the theme. “My knowledge of women extends over many nations…”

“… and three separate continents, if I recall.” He gave a tight smile. “However, it is a rather different matter to instruct another person – specifically a _male_ friend – on such a subject. Have you considered the form that your instruction would take?”

“Naturally,” I replied, determined that no hesitation on my part should dissuade him.

He raised an eyebrow, and leaned back in his chair. “Very well,” he replied, after a moment’s consideration. “In that case, it is an offer that I cannot refuse. We shall begin this evening, when you return from your rounds.”

I had several patients to visit that afternoon, and their complaints were severe enough to warrant my full attention. I confess, however, that my thoughts returned frequently to Holmes, and to our freshly laid plans for the evening. I did not regret my impetuous offer to instruct him. On the contrary, I was happy to be of service: it was rare that my knowledge of any relevant subject exceeded his. I was also excessively curious. Holmes’ sharp intellect and masterful personality held their own fascination; I had observed the effects on several of our female clients, who called at Baker Street upon the flimsiest of pretexts, long after their cases were resolved. Yet, he had always appeared more perplexed than gratified by this unwanted proof of his charms. He made no active effort to please anybody. To witness my aloof, talented friend in the role of a suitor, for the first time in his life, and under my instruction, was an intriguing prospect.

My final prescription signed, I made my way homeward with a flutter of anticipation beneath my sternum. It was something of a let-down, upon entering our lodgings, to find the fire lit but the sitting room empty.

“Holmes?” I called.

A rakish young man in a workman’s outfit emerged from the bathroom and came striding towards me. I stared at him in bewilderment for a full five seconds, until his lips twisted into a familiar smirk.

“You should know my methods by now,” Holmes chided, his cut-glass accent softening to a pleasant southern county drawl. “Allow me to introduce William Escott, the co-founder of a thriving plumbing business in Highgate.”

Instinctively, I shook the hand he offered, then cast my eye over his disguise. A plumber had been called to our lodgings the day before, to repair a leaking faucet, and Holmes had recreated every detail of his appearance, from the spanner in his shirt pocket to the water stains upon his boots. He even wore a well-trimmed goatee beard. In terms of authenticity, the ensemble was flawless. Given the task in hand, however, I thought that it left something to be desired. The real plumber, upon whom it was modelled, had been a phlegmatic, dull sort of chap, with no advantage of face or figure.

“Roll up your sleeves,” I instructed my friend.

With a look of surprise, he complied, refastening the cuffs about his elbows. At my further suggestion, he undid his top button, tucked his shirttails into his belt and, following a brief dispute on the relative merits of authenticity and aesthetic appeal, exchanged his ample trousers for a more snugly fitting pair. As a final touch, we arranged his hair so that one dark curl fell artlessly across his forehead. I then stood back to inspect our handiwork, with what I hoped would pass for disinterested approval.

I had always been aware that Holmes cut a fine figure. Given our situation as fellow lodgers, however, and his professed distaste for sentiment of any kind, I had taken pains to suppress the excess of my admiration, for I had no wish to torment myself, or to risk our friendship, by nursing an attraction that I knew he would disdain. This approach had worked well enough thus far; obliged now, however, to evaluate the effect of his appearance upon a potential conquest, my eyes lingered on those features that the adjustments to his costume now accentuated: his pale throat, his elegant wrists, and the muscular curve of his hips. Heat prickled beneath my collar, and I cleared my throat.

“That is a significant improvement.”

“I’m glad you think so.” His tone was dry, but he tugged at his shirt with uncharacteristic self-consciousness. I smiled in encouragement, but he turned away to peer out of the window at the darkening street.

“I intend to introduce myself to Agatha – that is, the housemaid – as she returns from Hampstead market tomorrow morning,” he said. “From what I have observed of her interactions thus far, I believe that self-assurance bordering on arrogance is the quality most appealing to her in a suitor.”

“Very well.” I took a deep breath, and stepped into the centre of the room. “Show me.”

He turned slowly to face me, eyebrows raised.

“It would do little good for us to stand around and discuss the theory,” I persisted, with more confidence than I felt, dropping my arms to my sides, palms open. “Come, my dear fellow, we have agreed to this. You must practice: go ahead. Pretend that I am she.”

He exhaled sharply and closed his eyes. An instant later, however, all traces of reluctance vanished from his face. He squared his shoulders, sank his hands into his pockets and assumed an air of jaunty confidence. A few paces away from me he stooped, as if to pick something up from the ground. When he straightened, a small pearl bracelet was dangling from his fingers.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, reverting to that low, lilting accent peculiar to ‘Escott’. “Does this belong to you?”

His fingers brushed mine as he handed me the trinket; while I pretended to examine it, he leaned in closer, his hand resting lightly upon my arm. “It complements that beautiful dress of yours,” he murmured, his lips against my ear.

I was seized by the sudden urge to laugh, although it was more from surprise and embarrassment than mirth. Despite my invitation, I had not expected him to take so direct an approach. The scene was contrived, no doubt a product of his foray into romantic literature, yet it was disconcertingly effective: my pulse had quickened, and my skin tingled with awareness of his proximity. It was fortunate that his expression was less skilfully executed. He was attempting an admiring gaze, but, upon his stern features, the result was more suggestive of constipation.

“Relax your face,” I instructed him, taking a moment to compose my own. “Now smile at me – just so – and let the smile fade, except in your eyes.”

We spent several minutes rehearsing variations upon his opening gambit, then identified some topics of conversation appropriate for a plumber and a housemaid upon their first meeting. Holmes consented, with only token reluctance, to run some dialogue, and now it was my turn to be self-conscious: I have never claimed to be able to act, and had no wish to make a fool of myself by attempting to imitate the tone or manners of a girl. The best I could do was to infuse more animation than usual into my voice, and remind myself of the very good cause that this was all in aid of.

As for Holmes, the mere mention of “the weather” was sufficient to make his fingers twitch. After a brief, stilted exchange upon the subject he was shifting his weight from side to side, and bouncing on his toes.

“And so on, and so forth,” he muttered, dismissing a legion of unspoken inanities with an impatient sweep of his hand. “For heaven’s sake, Watson, let us pass over the obligatory small talk, or we shall exhaust my stock of patience before I’ve begun!”

“You will gain nothing by boring yourself and the girl half to death,” I countered, half-laughing at his vehemence. “Every remark should invite her interest, or signal your own. If she mentions the cold, you could offer her your jacket. Or imply that, in her presence, you feel agreeably warm. Selecting the appropriate degree of subtlety is an art in itself.”

“In Agatha’s case, I doubt that much subtlety will be required,” he replied, morosely. “But the advice is apt. Perhaps I might suggest that she conserve some body heat, by taking my arm. May I?”

Returning to character, I took the arm he offered, and we walked the few paces up and down the room together.

“It is a privilege to escort you thus,” he remarked, sweetly, a moment later. “I know that you have a great many admirers.”

“You know nothing of the sort, sir! Or have you been spying on me?”

“I have no need to spy: a single glance reveals to me that at least two other persons are paying you court. Shall I tell you how I know this?”

“Are you implying that I’m free with my affections?”

“I fear the contrary,” he returned gallantly, before inclining his face towards mine and murmuring: “Your cravat has been straightened since this morning. You did not do it yourself: the knot is tighter than you prefer. This was the work of your first admirer. Your second was more circumspect: in her ploy to approach you, she pretended to examine your watch. The nervous perspiration from her index finger left a smudge upon the glass - here.”

My breath caught in my throat. Two of my patients that afternoon had acted precisely as he had described, and as he spoke he was undoing their handiwork: running one long finger across my watch to erase the smudge, then loosening my cravat, his hands deft and gentle against my chest. He was standing so close to me that his breath warmed my cheek. For one perilous moment, I was tempted to lean closer, or to grasp his hands and demand that he stop; I hardly knew whether to respond as Agatha or as myself.

“That was remarkable,” I said at last, my voice regrettably unsteady. “You have a talent for observation.”

“I have a great many talents,” he answered, with a knowing smirk. “And _you_ inspire me to exercise them.”

Looking back upon that evening, I can still recall the sense of surreality that pervaded the lesson from that point. Holmes-as-Escott proved to be a witty, resourceful conversationalist, and a smooth-tongued flatterer, as he honed his skills upon me. With practice, his performance became more polished, but what rendered it compelling, to my eyes at least, were those tantalising slips into awkwardness or idiosyncrasy, which made him appear most like himself. In such moments, I could almost imagine how it would be if Holmes himself were this attentive, this admiring, this open with me. I knew that it was nothing but role play on both sides, yet the insidious charm of it drew me in, in spite of myself.

He dropped the act at last, his shoulders sagging with weariness. The spell broken, I released his arm and stepped away. Our eyes met and held, and heat flooded my cheeks as I realised fully what intimate nonsense we had been talking. I half expected him to retreat to his room, but instead he poured a generous glass of brandy and pressed it into my hand, before taking an equal measure for himself. I sipped the drink gratefully, relishing its burn against the sudden ache in my chest.

“Do you often resort to such tricks in order to attract women?” he asked companionably, as though unaware of my discomfort. “I had not observed you to behave in such a manner before.”

I leaned against the mantel and closed my eyes. “In my younger days, I did. I had quite a reputation for it.”

“Then why stop?”

“I am neither as fit for, nor as desirous of female company as I used to be. It has been years since I have flirted. It would be an exercise in futility now.”

“Rather, I should say, you have no need of it.”

I risked a glance at him. He was examining the contents of his glass, tilting it back and forth in the firelight. “Mary Morstan loved you very well, just as you are. The same applies, no doubt, to the ladies who took liberties with your clothing this afternoon.”

“But I was oblivious to their interest,” I countered, shaking my head. “Such interactions lack in substance. I find them ultimately unsatisfying. If I cannot have again what I had with Mary, I would rather do without.”

He fixed me with a look of open curiosity, but asked no further questions. It was just as well: I already felt as if the evening’s exertions had stripped away my defences, leaving me raw and overexposed. I needed time to recover my equilibrium. It was unacceptable that a little play acting should have stirred up my feelings to this extent. We did not speak again for the remainder of the evening, and by the time I rose the next morning, he had already left for Hampstead.

oooOOOooo

Over the next few days, Holmes came and went at all hours in his plumber’s outfit. His reports on the case were characteristically cryptic, but I learned that his progress with Agatha was unremarkable: she had accepted him into her court, but had not yet accorded him her exclusive attention. He chafed at the want of opportunities; for my part, I struggled to comprehend how, after so many hours in her company, my friend could fail to impress this girl more deeply than a crowd of adolescent layabouts. I did not envy her his insincere attentions. I convinced myself that his long absences were a matter of indifference to me. Yet I fear that Holmes and I were both short-tempered with each other that week. This continued until the fourth day of his campaign, when he unexpectedly addressed the subject.

“It is not sufficient, Watson,” he said. “You must teach me how to touch her.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“I am not referring to sexual intimacy,” he added quickly, divining my thoughts. “However, something more than the polite offer of my arm is required. Agatha is more forward with me, and will become suspicious if I do not reciprocate.”

I let out a breath. “Forgive me, Holmes, but I do not understand the problem. On the evening of our first lesson, you touched me several times in what might fairly be described as a flirtatious manner. Is that not sufficient for the level of intimacy that you’re trying to achieve with her?”

“There is a difference,” he said, tightly. “I can touch her, as I touched you, to achieve a given effect. But most physical contact between lovers is a spontaneous expression of their desire for intimacy. I cannot feign that convincingly, nor respond as I ought to when she places her hands upon me.”

I frowned at the images which this latter remark conjured in my mind. “Is she not a pretty girl?” I enquired. “Do you not wish to touch her?”

“Pretty or not, I am not in the least attracted to her, and she is becoming aware of it.”

“Could you not work up some fondness for her?”

He compressed his lips into a tight line. “Even if I could, Watson, I believe I lack the ability to express affection in such a way.”

My throat constricted at this admission, although I was certain that any regret, except as far as it pertained to the case, was on my side alone.

“I’m sure that it’s merely a question of practice,” I said, compelled to reassure him. He answered only with a shrug, so I laid down my book and moved to join him upon the sofa. “What have you attempted? Show me.”

“No.” He raised his chin. “ _You_ show _me_. If I could first become habituated to flirtatious touches, I might better be able to initiate such myself.”

The air seemed to vanish from my lungs. This was different – formidably different - from sitting back and allowing him to practise his skills upon me. He was watching me closely, his expression guarded. Before I could second guess myself, I shifted towards him, and angled my knees so that they brushed against his.

All at once, the silence between us was too intense: it magnified every rustle of our clothing, and every thud of my heart. I ran my hand experimentally down his arm from shoulder to wrist; he remained silent and motionless throughout. Were it not for the rapid twitch and leap of his carotid pulse, he might have passed for a monument to stony indifference.

“You are too much on edge,” I told him, fighting my own urge to fidget under his gaze. “This will come more naturally if we are engaged in conversation.”

“If we are distracted, you mean.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and dropped his head back to stare fixedly at the ceiling.

“What do you talk about with Agatha?”

“The last time I walked out with her, we spent a full hour debating whether the esteemed Lady Alicia Malcom really is having an affair with her footman.”

“Well, is she?” I enquired.

“Do you imagine that I care? The wording of the newspaper reports suggests that it is a groundless rumour, propagated by her husband in order to discredit her. I put this view to Agatha, but she insists…”

He paused, holding his breath, as I curled my hand against the nape of his neck. This time, I rubbed light, tentative circles against his bare skin. “Agatha insists…?”

“Agatha is an incurable romantic, not unlike you.” His grimace was half-hearted at best. “She believes it is a case of sentiment run wild.”

Heart pounding, I shifted my hand upwards, relishing the silken slide of his hair between my fingers. “I suppose you find that difficult to comprehend.”

“It defies logic. But _you_ would doubtless assert that the heart follows a logic of its own.”

“You read that in one of those novels,” I challenged him.

He smiled slightly, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “ _A Study in Scarlet,_ to be precise.”

The tension was seeping from his posture, and with it, my own restraint began to crumble. Now that I was permitted - now that I had begun – it was hard to resist this one opportunity to touch him. I cupped his face in one hand, running my thumb over his cheekbone before tracing the familiar line of his jaw, his stubble prickling my palm. My other arm was around his shoulders, easing him closer. He came readily, sinking down against the cushions so that his face was on a level with mine. His lips were parted, and I brushed them with my fingertips, my nerves alight with this proximity to his breath, his tongue. He reached up and caught my hand; involuntarily I closed my eyes.

“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable,” he murmured, his thumb caressing my wrist. “This must be very different from your interactions with women.”

“It’s completely different,” I choked, fighting back the longing that this simple touch engendered. Holmes was no enticing stranger, but rather the most important person in my life. He was romantically inexperienced, he despised sentiment, and our ‘flirtation’ was a mere charade! Yet, despite all this, I could no longer deny that I desired precisely those intimacies with him that I had sought with my previous lovers. “I mean to say, it is not different at all.”

He laughed and released my hand, leaning against me. “You make a perfectly balanced argument”.

“When enjoying the touch of one’s beloved, some distraction of thought is only proper,” I retorted, keeping my tone light.

His cheek was now pressed to mine, so I felt, rather than saw, his smile. “Then let me confess, John, that you have distracted me too thoroughly to care about the etiquette.”

His low voice, close to my ear, sent shivers down my spine, even before I registered his words. He had spoken my Christian name as though he had done so every day of our lives, but this was the first time that he had ever addressed me in this intimate way. Astonishment and hope flared sharply in my chest, but before I could speak he pulled back as though burnt, turning his face away. His cheeks were flushed.

“Do you have plans for the day?” he demanded, abruptly.

I shook my head in bewilderment. “None.”

“Then, if you do not object, I’d like to extend our lesson.”

“I do not object.” I licked my lips. “In fact ...”

“I’m glad to hear it. You have much left to teach me.”

“Holmes…”

“And an hour’s practice will not suffice.”

Was this promise or evasion? It was maddening. “ _Sher-…_ “

“ _Watson_ ,” he interrupted again, stopping me cold, “I’m saying that I need more time.”

He turned at last to face me, and looked so much his usual self – sharp and self-contained, if somewhat agitated – that I could scarcely believe what had just occurred. My racing heart stumbled with the momentary dread that I had, once again, been carried away by our play acting. Yet, there was something in his voice that convinced me the situation was as complicated for him as it had become for me. I straightened my shoulders, and attempted a smile.

“Of course, my dear fellow. As long as you need.”

He patted my knee in awkward acknowledgement, and rose to fetch the _Morning Post_ from the table. He divided the pages between us in the usual way: sports and politics for me, the front page and agony columns for himself. Then he settled back down upon the sofa to read it, with his feet against the armrest, and his head resting in my lap.

At first I scarcely dared to breathe, lest he should recollect where he was and move away. Desire, hope and doubt had assailed me in such rapid succession that I felt raw, and half inclined to resent the man for being so damnably enigmatic! Yet, far though it was from the kind of intimacy I had briefly envisaged, the domesticity of our arrangement touched a deeper chord. It reminded me of evenings I had spent with Mary, who used to lie with me just so upon our sofa. Holmes had once walked in and surprised us thus; I wondered, now, whether he had chosen his position with the circumstance in mind. Hesitantly, I slipped my fingers back into his hair; immediately, his eyes flickered upwards to meet mine, and he smiled. I returned the smile, my heart lightening.

We remained upon the sofa for the best part of an hour, during which time the newspaper was thoroughly dissected by Holmes, and shuffled about distractedly by me. He then moved to his workspace, to resume an experiment on the adhesive properties of beeswax. Interpreting his silence as an invitation, I seated myself at his elbow, to write up some notes on a recent case. I made a point of consulting him frequently as I did so, passing him my pages with a deliberate brush of our fingers and, to my delight, he began to respond in kind, leaning in so that his shoulder nudged mine as he mixed and measured. Our progress was tentative – perhaps strangely so, given the beginning we had made – but by the time our dinner was served at a quarter past six, we were sitting with our ankles entwined beneath the table, and his hand upon my knee.

After dinner, Holmes took up his Stradivarius, and I settled into my armchair with rising anticipation. When he can be persuaded to play, rather than sawing over the bridge and fingerboard like a recalcitrant schoolboy, I would not trade my seat for the prime place in any concert hall in London. As he swept his bow experimentally across the open strings, I allowed myself, more fully than ever, to appreciate the lean grace of his body: its lines and curves – so different from a woman’s - and the delicate precision of his movements. His music, however, soon drew me in, and then even desire was forgotten. Holmes played Bach as if he were alone upon a cathedral spire; he played Mendelssohn as though a hundred-piece orchestra were at his back, lending thunder to his crescendos and carving rough contours above which his melody could soar. There was no artifice in his performance, and he held nothing back. I did not realise how I was staring at him until the last notes had died away and he had dropped his gaze to his instrument, apparently disconcerted by my silence.

I forced myself to speak, although my throat was very dry. “You should play like that for Agatha,” I told him.

“Why?”

“She would not long resist you, if you did.”

“She does not care for music.” He loosened his bow with meticulous care.

“Damn it, Holmes, it is not just about the music! It’s… you know that you are… that I…”

He looked up with a quizzical frown and, in part to cover my utter inability to finish my sentence, I crossed the room and took him into my arms.

We had embraced before, notably on the day of my ill-fated marriage, but we had never done so alone in the intimacy of our apartment, with no other claim upon our attention than the patter of rain against the window panes, and the soft chime of the mantel clock. Pulling him closer, and feeling him relax against me, soothed tensions that had plagued me for longer than I could remember. It was like stepping in from the winter cold to a warm fire and a glass of mulled wine.

“Your talents are wasted on Agatha,” I muttered, nonsensically, against his shoulder.

oooOOOooo

Never let it be supposed that Sherlock Holmes, when committed to a case, will leave a single stone unturned in his efforts to resolve it. Over the following days we barely saw each other, for he spent almost every free hour in Hampstead. Whenever we did coincide in our lodgings, however, we continued to touch.

We did not move again beyond small gestures, such as a caress of the shoulder in passing, or an arm about the waist as we sat close together upon the sofa. Holmes initiated the contact as often as I. At times it was awkward; at others, I caught my breath at how natural it felt to interact with him in this way. We did not discuss it. In truth, I preferred not to question what might happen once the case was resolved and my “instruction” no longer required.

Then, one wild, stormy evening, Holmes returned home dishevelled and breathless, his eyes alight with excitement. He ran his fingers through my hair in greeting, peeled off Escott’s goatee beard, then dropped into the armchair opposite me with a hearty laugh.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

“No indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

At these words, my coffee cup slipped from my fingers. It struck my knee, bounced to the floor, and spilled half its contents down my trouser leg. Holmes was at my side in an instant, mopping up the scalding liquid with his sleeve before it could soak through the cloth. For half a minute we scrambled to save the furniture and rug from yet another unwieldy stain. Crisis past, we found ourselves kneeling a mere foot apart before the fireplace, regarding each other intently.

“I apologise for startling you,” he said, as I repeated at the same moment: “Engaged?”

“My dear boy, you appear positively scandalised!” He clasped my elbow to help me to my feet, making a visible effort to reign in his glee. “To preserve our friendship, I should explain that my invitation to wed Agatha comes from her father, not from the lady herself. You will no doubt acknowledge the distinction, although many would consider the consent of a daughter to be a secondary consideration in such a case.”

“Agatha’s _father…_?”

“Milverton’s butler,” he clarified, with a smile. “I have also won the heart of Milverton’s cook and several of the footmen. When the ill effects of a broken water pipe are exacerbated by a rainstorm, and the kitchens ankle deep in sludge, a skilled workman such as Escott is more welcome than a bevy of sentimental swains.”

“Do not tell me you know anything about plumbing!” I exclaimed, admiring and relieved in equal measure.

He laughed. “I dare say that, when I left home this morning, I knew rather less about the subject than you. However, with borrowed tools I was able to effect some temporary repairs. This was only possible, I might add, once I had conducted an extensive examination of the house and grounds.”

“Ah! So you have also obtained the information you were seeking.”

“Almost.” His expression shifted into something resolute, yet furtive. “Agatha has asked me to kiss her.”

I bit my lip, and clasped my hands tightly behind my back, as a thrill of anticipation coiled in my chest. I waited.

“Her motives are just as underhand as mine,” Holmes continued, quickly. “She hopes to prompt my rival into a declaration, and believes that the sight of me kissing her will arouse in him the requisite jealousy and possessiveness.”

“She has told you this?”

He scoffed. “Hardly! It is obvious to me nonetheless.”

A gust of wind rattled at the windows, and lightning flickered through the charged air. Taking a deep breath, I placed my hands upon his shoulders.

“So, you plan to share your first kiss with a woman you care nothing about, under the watchful eye of a hated rival, with the aim of inciting jealousy and extracting information to facilitate a burglary?”

“That is the gist of it.”

“How appalling!”

“There speaks the romantic in you.”

“The romantic in me has plenty more to say upon the subject.”

His eyes flitted between mine, and he wet his lips. Repressing a smile, I leaned towards him until our faces were inches apart. Close up, he smelled of rain, and of freshly spilled coffee.

“I assume that you require instruction?” I prompted after a moment’s silence, ghosting the backs of my fingers over the curve of his throat. “There are many different ways to kiss, you know.”

“I _don’t_ know.” He swallowed convulsively. “That is rather the point.”

“Well, what are you aiming for?” I persisted. “Should it be romantic? Passionate? Forceful? Sensuous? Seductive?”

“I… any of that.” His breaths were coming faster; he raised his hands distractedly to my arms before dropping them to his sides.

“Touch me,” I said, and his fingers returned to the nape of my neck, sending sparks of electricity down my spine. I caught his other hand and placed it on my waist. “Tell me what you want.”

In answer, he stepped forward abruptly, and crushed our lips together.

It was more of a battle than a kiss. Holmes plainly had no idea what he was doing, nor desire to stop and learn. I struggled for a better angle, digging my fingers into his shoulder blades as he clutched at my shirt. “ _This_ ,” he gasped, even as our noses collided painfully.

Changing tactics, I drew his lower lip between mine and caressed it generously with my tongue, until his breathing shuddered and he slackened his grip. I then nudged him backwards until his shoulders hit the wall and pressed my open mouth to his. He groaned, sinking down to grant me better access. It was several glorious seconds before he had the wherewithal to reciprocate, but once he did, he copied my movements with growing skill, until I was not pinning him in place so much as leaning against him, weak-kneed with desire.

“Don’t try this with Agatha,” I panted at last, sliding my hand from his hips to the front of his trousers, where his erection was pressing against my stomach. Heart pounding, I palmed him slowly, and he moaned, splaying his fingers against the wall. Then I dropped to my knees and kissed him there, between his legs, breathing in the heady scent of him, intensifying it as I dampened the fabric with my breath and tongue. His hips jerked forward and he clenched his fists in an effort to hold himself still.

My hands were on his belt buckle before I recollected his inexperience. “Should I…. I’m sorry. Is this too much?”

He stared down at me, pupils blown wide, for a full two seconds before he understood my question, then he pulled me once more to my feet, running restless hands over my sides, as though he were physically unable to stop touching me.

“Come to my room,” he said, his voice hoarse.

We stumbled the few steps down the hallway and collapsed, fully clothed, onto his bed. He began immediately to undo the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers, normally as steady as a surgeon’s, were shaking.

“Stop that,” I said, without thinking, catching his wrist and pressing a kiss to his racing pulse. “Let me.”

I hastily pulled off my own shirt then set to work, more slowly, on his. His chest heaved against my fingers as I stripped his clothing away; when I placed my mouth upon an exposed nipple, he arched his back and cried out, tangling his hands in my hair to hold me in place. I obliged him for a long moment, relishing the rising heat of his skin against mine, until I could wait no longer. Without ceasing the motions of my lips and tongue, I slid my hand back down to his groin.

I was shaking now myself; I fumbled for what seemed like an age with his trousers. The firmness of his erection against my fingers left me dizzy with want, but it was the trust that he had placed in me - his submission to my guidance - that almost undid me. Once I had freed him, I laid my forehead against the quivering muscles of his abdomen, slowing my breathing even as he fought to control his.

“Sherlock,” I said, looking up. He was staring at me, deeply flushed, his eyes dark and his lips parted. My chest clenched. “May I?”

He nodded wordlessly.

Taking the base of his prick in my hand, I lowered my head.

Here, everything was heightened: his warmth, his scent, his pulse beneath my lips, as the most intimate part of him strained towards my touch. His fingers flexed against my scalp as I pressed hot kisses to his shaft before taking the head into my mouth. He shuddered as I swirled my tongue in a half-forgotten motion, his incoherent imprecations deteriorating into a moan. My saliva pooled at the bitter, salty taste of him; with the slick I stroked and massaged the flesh that my mouth did not cover. After only a few minutes he was thrusting helplessly against me. I placed a steadying hand on his hip, and an instant later he cried out and spent himself into my mouth.

I lay still for a long moment, as stunned as though I had climaxed myself, and awash with a fierce, protective tenderness. He was silent, one arm flung across his face. Not wishing to crowd him, I stretched out at his side and placed a shaking hand against his sternum. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking dazedly, but as his gaze focused he regarded me with an intensity that laid my heart bare.

“My dear fellow…” I began awkwardly, but he kissed the words from my mouth.

He had no need of my instruction, now. As he worked his tongue slowly, exquisitely, between my lips, I surrendered all control, letting him caress and explore me. He groaned into my mouth, and my desire throbbed hot and deep. My prick swelled tightly against my trousers; I shifted, desperate for relief, and then his fingers were there, unfastening the buttons and easing my underclothes down my legs. He leaned in, pressing against my side as he took my prick in his hand. Discomfort dissolved into aching pleasure at his touch. He stroked me slowly, almost meditatively, yet I could hardly catch my breath.

The storm outside, the howling wind and the lash of rain against the window, all seemed but a distant counterpoint to the gentle pressure of his hand and the passion rising within me. Pleasure spiralled inexorably at each motion of his fingers. I buried my face against his shoulder to stifle my moans. His lips and tongue caressed my neck, his breath hot against my dampened skin, and then he stroked me harder, faster, and nothing else mattered but his closeness. I pulled him on top of me and thrust up against him, craving connection in every inch that our bodies touched. He ground his hips downwards in answer, and ecstasy coursed through me in waves, splitting me open as I clung to him.

We lay panting, cheek to cheek, tight in each other’s arms. I ran my fingers through his sweat-damp hair, and pressed my lips to his temple.

I wondered, hazily, if I would ever be able to let him go.

Then a clap of thunder rent the air like a gunshot.

Holmes and I both started in surprise, seasoned campaigners though we were. The very walls seemed to shake, and the gas lamps guttered, sending the shadows reeling. We gazed at each other for a moment, wide-eyed, then he chuckled, and pushed himself up onto one elbow. More slowly I followed suit, my gaze lingering on his tousled hair, swollen lips, and crumpled plumber’s outfit. I could not help but smile. His lips twitched in response, but his eyes were already drawn to the window, and his expression hardened with a new resolve.

“Splendid weather,” he murmured.

I stared at him incredulously. “You wish to talk about the weather _now_?”

“It suits my purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Concealment. And attack.”

Seeing my bewilderment, he laughed again, leaning forward confidingly until his face was inches from mine. His eyes were agleam with unholy anticipation. “I mean to burgle Milverton’s house tonight.”

oooOOOooo

Only the partner of Sherlock Holmes could be required, within five brief minutes, to descend from the heights of passion to the seeking out of rubber-soled tennis shoes and the fabrication of black silk masks. Upon reflection it seems strange, even to me, but such is the life that we share. We had no time to lose, for the evening was already advanced and the storm abating. Sooner than I would have thought possible, we were seated in a cab bound for Hampstead.

In " _The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton_ " I have related the substance of the following events, so I will not repeat them in their entirety here. To return briefly, however, to the subject of evasions in my narrative: I believed, when I wrote the tale, that my style of writing was sober and restrained, yet rereading it never fails to set my blood racing. I cannot help but wonder, in complete accord with Holmes, how my readers can fail to _observe_!

I stated in the official record that Holmes seized my hand as we crept through Milverton’s conservatory. Battle-hardened, I could see in the dark as well as he, but the thrill of breaking one law was immeasurably heightened by simultaneously defying another. I did watch him with a ‘glow of admiration’ as he opened the safe: admiration not only at his criminal skill, but also at the manner in which he knelt upon the carpet in his tightly-pressed dress clothes, his forearms bare, his cheek pressed almost tenderly to the metal as he manipulated the brass knobs with dexterous fingers. Those fingers found mine, once more, as we stood in quivering suspense behind the curtain, watching Milverton converse with his murderous visitor. Throughout it all, our position could not have been more perilous, yet with Holmes at my side I exulted in the danger. After destroying the contents of the safe, we ran for our lives out onto the vast expanse of Hampstead Heath, where we stood laughing in breathless triumph as the icy wind whipped around us.

Yet, even the potent mix of post-coital and post-case euphoria could not protect us indefinitely against the cold. At length we began the long trudge home, and a silence fell between us that was not precisely uncomfortable, but unsatisfying nonetheless. There were matters that we had failed to discuss. The conclusion of the case could just as easily signify the end of a chapter as a new beginning. I could find no easy way to broach the subject; it is extraordinary how men can leap fearlessly into mortal danger, yet cower at the prospect of a heart-to-heart.

“We really should take off our boots, you know,” Holmes remarked, interrupting my thoughts. “The rain will make it impossible to track us, yet we’re sure to have left some prints.”

I shook my head in affectionate exasperation. “I am _not_ walking home bootless so that you can pride yourself in having committed an unsolvable crime.”

He laughed. “Never fear. Even I am not such a perfectionist. I believe that we can safely rely upon the incompetence of our friends at Scotland Yard.”

“Agatha did not prove to be a very reliable friend,” I remarked, after a moment’s pause. “She told you that Milverton would be sleeping at this hour.”

“Do you imagine that she intentionally misinformed me?” His brow furrowed. “It is not impossible: my questions were rather pointed, and she is astute, in her own way. But most likely she was unaware of her employer’s late-night rendezvous. I should have foreseen it. I was unforgivably distracted.”

“Yes, that _was_ unforgivable.” I regarded him slyly from the corner of my eye. “Particularly as my last lesson appears to have been in vain.”

He coughed. “She _did_ ask me to kiss her,” he muttered in the direction of his boots. “I did not realise until this morning that I could extract the information I needed in any other way.”

I took a brief moment to savour the fact that Sherlock Holmes, through a lie of omission, had induced me to give him an entirely unnecessary lesson in kissing that afternoon.

“I have told you that I am never precipitate in my actions,” he continued, still addressing the ground. “I needed to be certain.”

We had come to the point without any great effort, after all. I touched his hand. “Certain of what?”

He stopped, and turned to face me with a look of determination. “Watson… John, I am quite certain now that I do _not_ want to continue flirting with you.” He squeezed my hand, then let it fall. “Flirtation implies superficiality, or a lack of serious intention. That is not my style or, ultimately, yours.”

I shook my head. “I would much prefer to be sincere with you.”

“Are you completely satisfied with our friendship?” he asked.

I considered it, and realisation came fast: “I am _now_. We’ve danced around this question for too long, but now it is addressed and there is no concealment between us. If you want us to remain friends, I will not consider our friendship lacking. But if you want anything more, then I… I am offering.”

He walked on, and I continued by his side, feeling strangely at peace. The intimate words and touches that we had shared over the past week, compelling though they had been, _were_ less important to me than the knowledge that I loved this man, and that he loved me. That was the one clear answer, whatever else we had feigned or fallen into or simply tried on for a while. Of course, I might not have been quite so philosophical, had I not continued to hope.

“From the moment we met, I have wanted more from you,” he said hesitantly, after a pause. “I cannot understand it; you are an anomaly in my life. I have wanted you to be more than a fellow lodger, more than a colleague and, now, more than a friend. And I want to be more to _you_ than a one-time lover who bolted at a clap of thunder and refused to risk his heart.”

“It is settled, then.” I took his arm, my own heart lighter than air.

“Settled? Just like that?” He sounded amused, but his voice cracked over the words.

“Which one of us is the romantic now?” I teased. “Were you expecting a passionate embrace, or a candlelit serenade, and one of us on his knees?”

“We’ve done all of that,” he retorted, archly.

“So we have.”

“Nevertheless, all that I’ve read upon the subject… whatever are you laughing at, John?... My extensive _research_ suggests that a profession of eternal devotion and, perhaps, one chaste kiss upon the lips, would be fitting in such a moment.”

“Go ahead,” I smiled into his eyes. “Show me.”

He did so, and it was warm and tremulous, and brilliant and tender and _real_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as a Victorian-era remix of Ivyblossom’s ["It Isn't Strange Until You Think About It"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305196%22). Then it went its own merry way, so I’m not sure if it technically counts as a remix any more. I’m grateful for the inspiration, either way. 
> 
> HUGE thanks and credit to my beta, Emma Ockham, for her encouragement, suggestions and insightful advice! 
> 
> And thank you for reading :-)


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